Beside my front door are two walking sticks.
One is a sword cane whose sheath is made from bamboo. To draw the sword, you must twist the top of the cane several times, which strikes me as an inefficient means of protection when attacked by a mugger or by some drunk in a bar who takes offense at something you’ve said. I rarely go to bars anymore, and I never use a walking stick: the sword cane is more a decoration and conversation piece than a weapon. The hidden sword does have a needle-sharp point and impresses my grandchildren, but otherwise serves little purpose.
One is a sword cane whose sheath is made from bamboo. To draw the sword, you must twist the top of the cane several times, which strikes me as an inefficient means of protection when attacked by a mugger or by some drunk in a bar who takes offense at something you’ve said. I rarely go to bars anymore, and I never use a walking stick: the sword cane is more a decoration and conversation piece than a weapon. The hidden sword does have a needle-sharp point and impresses my grandchildren, but otherwise serves little purpose.
The other cane is close to a hundred years old. I’m not sure of the type of wood from which some craftsman fashioned it, but it is substantial. The handle is firm, and on the end of the cane, or walking stick if you prefer, is a cup of brass to prevent the tip from fraying. Whoever made the cane lacquered the wood, but left the stems of the branches so the surface is rough.
This cane belonged to the father of Sue Willard Lindsley. Sue Willard was born in Waynesville and had lived nearly all her life in the house just down the street from our bed-and-breakfast. Why she gave me this cane I don’t recollect, but I do know that we became fast friends. Sue Willard was close to ninety years old when I met her, white-haired, pale, and pink-eyed, so that she looked a bit like a rabbit. I would help her from time to time on her house, cleaning out the gutters or fixing a leak in the roof, and she would tell me stories about her life in Waynesville.
Sue Willard remembered Mrs. Palmer, who in the 1890s opened a “tourist home” in what later became our bed-and-breakfast. Mrs. Palmer offered ballroom dance lessons to the young ladies of the town, and Sue Willard and some of her friends learned to dance in the living room of the Palmer House. From the turn of the century until the Depression, Waynesville was a mecca for tourists, and Sue Willard could remember when summer visitors arrived in horse-drawn carriages from the railroad station to spend a month or more at places like the Palmer House to escape the heat of the Deep South. She could remember when Waynesville’s Main Street was home to half-a-dozen hotels, including one that featured three dances a day: phonographic music in the late morning, a small band before supper, and an orchestra after the guests had eaten. The hotel was long gone by the time I lived in Waynesville, but you could still see the shuffleboard court behind the funeral home.
Sue Willard’s father opened Waynesville’s first bookstore, which interested me because I was a bookman myself. He sold books, stationery, and pens to the tourists, but made a good deal of his money ordering books for the local schools. Sue Willard worked some in his store, but would often beg off to attend the dances at the hotel. Though she once received a marriage proposal, Sue Willard rejected her suitor and spent her life caring for her parents. When they died, her father first, her mother a good many years later, she lived alone in the house on her father’s savings and small military pension. At some point, Sue WIllard and another woman opened Waynesville’s first kindergarten, meeting their classes in the heated rooms above the barn of the Way House on Main Street.
Because I was interested in the history of the town, I once interviewed Sue Willard. It was, I confess, a dull interview—Sue Willard was naturally timid, and the tape deck made her nervous—until I asked one question about Pigeon Street, the street on which our houses sat. “What was the biggest event ever to happen on Pigeon Street?” I asked.
Sue Willard lit up like the Fourth of July and Christmas combined. “Indoor plumbing!”
“Indoor plumbing?”
“Jeff, you can’t imagine how wonderful it was to have the bathroom in the house,” she said. “No more trips at midnight to a backyard privy in January.”
Even with innovations like indoor plumbing, people in Waynesville kept an eye on their neighbors. When the Stoesons noticed one morning that Sue Willard had not opened her blinds as she always did by eight o’clock, they broken one of the windows in her door, unlocked it, and found Sue Willard upstairs on her bedroom floor. She’d fallen and broken her hip. That injury resulted in a move a nearby nursing home.
From time to time, my children and I would visit Sue Willard in the nursing home. On each visit she would hold my hand and tell me, “Jeff, I just want Jesus to take me home.”
Eventually, Jesus heard Sue Willard knocking and opened the door.
This cane belonged to the father of Sue Willard Lindsley. Sue Willard was born in Waynesville and had lived nearly all her life in the house just down the street from our bed-and-breakfast. Why she gave me this cane I don’t recollect, but I do know that we became fast friends. Sue Willard was close to ninety years old when I met her, white-haired, pale, and pink-eyed, so that she looked a bit like a rabbit. I would help her from time to time on her house, cleaning out the gutters or fixing a leak in the roof, and she would tell me stories about her life in Waynesville.
Sue Willard remembered Mrs. Palmer, who in the 1890s opened a “tourist home” in what later became our bed-and-breakfast. Mrs. Palmer offered ballroom dance lessons to the young ladies of the town, and Sue Willard and some of her friends learned to dance in the living room of the Palmer House. From the turn of the century until the Depression, Waynesville was a mecca for tourists, and Sue Willard could remember when summer visitors arrived in horse-drawn carriages from the railroad station to spend a month or more at places like the Palmer House to escape the heat of the Deep South. She could remember when Waynesville’s Main Street was home to half-a-dozen hotels, including one that featured three dances a day: phonographic music in the late morning, a small band before supper, and an orchestra after the guests had eaten. The hotel was long gone by the time I lived in Waynesville, but you could still see the shuffleboard court behind the funeral home.
Sue Willard’s father opened Waynesville’s first bookstore, which interested me because I was a bookman myself. He sold books, stationery, and pens to the tourists, but made a good deal of his money ordering books for the local schools. Sue Willard worked some in his store, but would often beg off to attend the dances at the hotel. Though she once received a marriage proposal, Sue Willard rejected her suitor and spent her life caring for her parents. When they died, her father first, her mother a good many years later, she lived alone in the house on her father’s savings and small military pension. At some point, Sue WIllard and another woman opened Waynesville’s first kindergarten, meeting their classes in the heated rooms above the barn of the Way House on Main Street.
Because I was interested in the history of the town, I once interviewed Sue Willard. It was, I confess, a dull interview—Sue Willard was naturally timid, and the tape deck made her nervous—until I asked one question about Pigeon Street, the street on which our houses sat. “What was the biggest event ever to happen on Pigeon Street?” I asked.
Sue Willard lit up like the Fourth of July and Christmas combined. “Indoor plumbing!”
“Indoor plumbing?”
“Jeff, you can’t imagine how wonderful it was to have the bathroom in the house,” she said. “No more trips at midnight to a backyard privy in January.”
Even with innovations like indoor plumbing, people in Waynesville kept an eye on their neighbors. When the Stoesons noticed one morning that Sue Willard had not opened her blinds as she always did by eight o’clock, they broken one of the windows in her door, unlocked it, and found Sue Willard upstairs on her bedroom floor. She’d fallen and broken her hip. That injury resulted in a move a nearby nursing home.
From time to time, my children and I would visit Sue Willard in the nursing home. On each visit she would hold my hand and tell me, “Jeff, I just want Jesus to take me home.”
Eventually, Jesus heard Sue Willard knocking and opened the door.
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